Meaningless
by Trishala Vardhan
Summary: What do you do when your life has no worth? Castiel-centric. Review, please!


**Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters.**

**So, I was watching the episode where Joshua tells the boys that God doesn't care, and then Cas' reaction, and this is the my in-depth, angsty (again) analysis. I love Castiel to pieces, I do, and I was just **_**dying**_** to write something about him.**

**Spoilers for seasons three to five. **

**Enjoy, and review, please!**

Chapter One- Wasted

Four thousand years.

Four thousand years of life gone waste. That was all he had.

When Castiel had been born, the first thing to be drilled into his head, immersed in his Grace, weaved into his essence, had been just three words.

_Follow Father's will. _

It had been an integral part of him, as integral a part as Sam was to Dean, or Dean to Sam.

Or a mother's link to her child, a man to his wife. There would be a million examples, comparisons. But they couldn't quite fit.

Castiel's link? Castiel's bond?

It was to a being he'd never known, never spoken to, never seen, never _felt_.

It was obedience. It was faith.

It had never really occurred to Castiel, that trusting, following, _believing _in a Father he'd never known was unwise. Fruitless. Naïve.

Four thousand years later, he would curse his faith.

To obey was an angel's only task. Obedience _was_ an angel.

Angels could not feel. No, that was humanity's burden.

Humanity's curse.

Castiel had always thought that it was man's scope to _feel _that doomed them in the end.

Doubt. Anger. Fear. Pride. Hate. Love.

Sent nations crashing down. Sent humans to their deaths. Sent humans to Hell.

That was why it made Castiel uneasy, even afraid, when angels began to lose their faith. When angels began to Fall.

It was rare, but it was present. Castiel would talk to them, try and reason with them, and resolutely refused to let the doubt in their questions, the resentment, the accusations, take hold in his mind.

_Why isn't He here? _

_Why won't He talk to us? _

Then Lucifer Fell.

Castiel remembered Lucifer when he was good, and pure. The pride and joy of Heaven.

The Morning Star. How beautiful he was. The finest of the angels.

Four thousand years later, Castiel realized exactly how beautiful Lucifer was.

Beautiful as sin.

There was chaos in Heaven when he Fell, when Michael cast him down to Hell, _Michael_, who had taught Lucifer everything he knew, who had protected Lucifer with everything he had. Michael, whose first and foremost task was big brother to Lucifer and nothing else.

Castiel would compare that link between the two to Dean's relationship with Sam.

How ironic that Dean would be Michael's vessel, and Sam Lucifer's.

Of course it would be Dean and Sam.

Gabriel had fled. The sheer number of angels who had Fallen with Lucifer left Castiel sickened.

Aghast.

He refused to think, to entertain the thought, that maybe, just _maybe,_ if God had intervened, things could have been different.

Four thousand years later, Castiel would recognize that as the first stirrings of doubt.

At that time, when things had finally settled down in Heaven, he had pushed the thought, or the refusal of that thought, away, ashamed at his irreverence. His disrespect.

Something in him stirred again, when Anna, beautiful, misguided, Anna, had Fallen. Been born again as a human.

Anna, his superior, the one he had looked up to.

Then he had to save Dean Winchester from Hell.

Just because it was God's will, he did it, even though Hell burned on his essence, made him want to howl in pain, made him _fear_.

It was because Castiel loved God.

Castiel loved a Father he'd never seen.

But that was all right, because Castiel had faith.

It terrified him, horrified him, and perhaps even galled him, when Castiel began to _feel_.

Affection. Concern. Worry, and yes, doubt, at the things he was forced to do, at the things _Dean_ was made to do. At God's will.

In all his four thousand years, Castiel had never, ever, hated himself the way he did when he began to feel. Began to be human.

A few months later, even that would change, because there was nothing stable in Castiel's world anymore.

He hated that he was considering disobedience.

He hated that he was demoted. Hated the fact that he deserved it.

Hated his fondness for Dean.

The doubt intensified, when Uriel, his friend, his brother of two thousand years, succumbed to Lucifer.

Tried to kill him.

Castiel had been pulled back to Heaven, been made to see how wrong he was.

The shame accumulated in him, a hot, black cloud of humiliation that tormented him constantly.

So he concurred.

Accepted that the Apocalypse was necessary, that God wanted it to happen so that there was paradise on Earth, and ignored the voice in his head that was screaming _this is wrong, this is wrong._

It was the voice of sin. The voice of humanity.

But Castiel couldn't do it. Couldn't let it happen. He realized that the voice was right. Not sinful. Not wrong.

Or was it just those feelings roiling in him? So potent, so strong, that they deluded him into thinking this was the right thing to do? Clouded his judgment, his four thousand years of unswerving loyalty?

Castiel didn't care. The emotions were too much. He did it. He turned his back on everything he had ever known. Gone, four thousand years of service, in one moment.

Castiel Fell.

But what separated him from the rest?

Just one simple thing. Castiel still hadn't lost his faith.

It was dwindling, but he held on to it fiercely, desperately. He needed one constant in his world.

He wasn't going to lose it, he swore.

So Castiel searched for God, searched everywhere he could, ignoring Dean's cynicism.

Ignoring the same voice in his head that told him _it's no use_.

Four thousand years of faith had to mean something.

He'd come full circle.

Then Joshua spoke to the Winchesters. And Castiel's heart shattered.

God didn't care. He was here, he was watching, but he didn't lift a finger to help.

Didn't it _matter_?

Didn't it matter to him that angels were dying, that humans were dying like ants, crushed underfoot by Lucifer, that the world was ending?

Didn't it _matter_ to God that Castiel had believed in him, trusted him implicitly, and loved him, for four thousand years, obeyed his every command?

The fury rose in him, then, so black and terrible it frightened Castiel. Shocked him that he could feel something so corrosive, so violent.

So did the despair.

He cursed God, and left, left to be alone even though he didn't want to.

Castiel truly hated himself right then. Hated himself for loving his cruel, cold Father all those centuries, hated himself for believing in him, for obeying him.

But most all of, Castiel hated his faith. It left him, his belief, in one fell swoop, and it left him cold, and empty.

Hollow.

Castiel had never felt so alone, so scared, all his life. He had nothing to show for his existence.

He didn't know if what he was doing was right. He didn't know why he was sitting in Dean's car, lost. Rootless. He didn't know how to stop Lucifer. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know anything, except the fact that his life was a waste. All his faith was a waste.

He knew nothing. Just that his existence was useless. His life had no meaning anymore. His life had never had meaning.

Worthless.

For the first time in four thousand years, Castiel wept.


End file.
